BUDDY GOT IT GOIN' ON

Buddy, our most senior driver("the man's a geezer, OK?" "Buddy's older than ...pizza."), had his van for sale forever. I used to refer to it as the RUAV, the Redneck Urban Assault Vehicle. It was vintage late ‘80’s, double deckerish, mostly mauve and crowned with one of those weird looking, sickle shaped TV antennas. In the upper left corner of the rear window was a confederate flag sticker. The “FOR SALE” signs had been on the van so long, people just assumed that they were part of the look, just like his handicapped tag dangling from the rear view mirror.
Saturday night, Buddy showed up for work with his new ride, a 1992 Ford Escort. The little subcompact was a bright metallic purple and featured gold 18 inch spinner wheels. When the car is turned off, it seems it's a toss up which was going to stop first, the spinners or the cars dieseling. Judging by the blaring, pounding country western music, every time Buddy pulled up in front of the pizza store, it must have a kick-butt stereo. Either that or Buddy's hearing aid is not working properly, again.
Jason, one of the younger drivers, refers to it as, “Buddy’s econo-pimp mobile”.
He asked, “How many Ho’s do you get to the mile, in that thing, Buddy?”
For me, what completes the look is not all the above. If you look at the rear of the vehicle, as the old guy drives away, pizza light lit, handicapped tag dangling,spinners spinning, purple sparkling, you can clearly make out where there had once been 3" high block letters near the rear bumper. It reads STUDENT DRIVER.

SOMEBODY'S LITTLE GIRL

As soon as I arrived at the pizza store, early Saturday evening, it was obvious that things were slow. Already 5 or 6 drivers were standing around, folding pizza boxes, shooting the breeze, waiting for delivery orders to pop up on the computer screen then pop out of the oven.
Jason, a 20 something college student who rarely had a nice thing to say about anyone, was finishing his thought. "I guess the way the body was found, the cops think that it might be a serial killer. Something about being tied to some hookers in Daytona."
"She was beaten to a pulp," Chris, another driver said.
"What are you guys talking about?", I inquired
"They found a dead crack whore behind that warehouse next to the tracks on Palm Street," Jason said.
"Really, wow. When? I just delivered to the lesbian couple that lives across the street, yesterday. You know the ones that always order chicken strips and say, "Please be safe out there," as you're leaving?
"Yeah, I know the lesbos you're talking about. Last time I said, "Maybe you Dudes ought to be careful in there," as I pointed to their bedroom door, smirked Jason
"Be careful Dude. The big one is way more of a man than you are", Chris chimed in.
"Yeah, yeah. The paper said the Ho had been arrested over 80 times for drug related and prostitution."
"80 ? How old was she," I asked?
"Old", another young driver threw in coldly. Then realizing who he was talking to, and our age difference, "I mean but not real old. She was 39 or something."
"I saw her picture", another driver threw in. "She wasn't bad looking...in her younger days".
"Crack and Meth did her in. That stuff is nasty", said Jason.
"You guys ought to keep that in mind", I added in my best fatherly tone.
"Just weed, Dude. That's all I do", added Chris.
"Yeah, Dude, you don't hear of a Weed Ho, do you", asked Jason?
"If there ever was one it's you Dude", said Chris
"I am a pushover if you give me one reefer", Jason said laughing
"I'll try to keep that in mind", I said dryly
"The paper said she had 2 kids", another driver added, "and she used to be a supervisor at the metal stamping plant".
"But she was a hooker. Nothing but a junkie and a hooker", added Jason
Buddy, the ancient red-neck and usually indecipherable driver, had been silently folding boxes, his head down. He had given no indication that he heard any of the prior conversation, but suddenly mumbled, "Somebody's little girl."
"What's that Buddy",, I inquired?
"She was somebody's little girl." He never looked up and just kept folding boxes.

YOU'LL GO DOWN IN HISTOREEEEE....!

The computer imprints a delivery zone on each ticket it spits out. That numbered area matches up with a grid on the large wall map. Most drivers will check the grid versus their head knowledge just so they don't end up driving in circles and wasting tip money on gas. I pulled two tickets in the same area, loaded up and headed out. Even though I had checked the street before I left, one address didn’t make sense. I had been driving long enough, however, that I knew I would figure it out once I was in the area. Besides, Buddy was “downloading” which made it tough for anyone to get any quality maptime.

First, I headed for River Street South, the address in question. After my third pass following the road to its end, I grabbed my cell and called the customer. An extreme Rubeonic twang answered on the other end.
“This is", asked twang?
“Hi, this is the pizzaguy and I’m trying to find your house.”
“Where you at”?
I gave him my general locale and his immediate response was, “What the hell do ya think we are? We don’t live nowhere near there.”
He then proceeded to give me the precise, almost military style location of his house using "klicks" and "south by southwest" type directions. His directions lead to the opposite end of town and maybe the opposite end of America. The area that the computer sent me to was “ghettofied”. In fact, the computer had sent me into an area that we drivers were not allowed to go into, let alone deliver to, any time. It was represented by a gray mass on the large wall map. The gray area was put there by the “corporate office” to warn us not to even travel through due to FBI’s high crime stats and/or we had more than one driver robbed in that zone, etc. I was aware of these factors but tried to make the delivery anyway.

Now, loaded with my new directions, I headed to the other River Street South. It was a very different road that not only paralleled the river but did dead end right into it, if you were not paying attention.

“Head to the end of the pavement just past the 1st crick”, then make a hard right just past Uncle Red’s boat, northeast onto the pine needle path.” I didn’t know from Uncle Red’s boat but, once again, figured it would make sense once I was there. It did and I followed the trail (at every bend, a new bank of motion activated set of quartz halogen lights lit up) until the path opened up into a compound. The compound featured many interesting and unique things but one stood out. It was what appeared to be a 25’ tall prison guard tower complete with a turret. It was currently unmanned but was creepy, none the less. I figured you could see/cover all of their 10-15 acres of vacant land, including the riverfront, from the top. I pulled the mostly green to a halt in front of the welding shop (an absolute must for every survivalist home). I was first greeted by a set of bookend pit bulls, one white, one black-brindle. They sat about three feet from my side of my door. No barking , just sitting and apparently observing…or deciding which one goes for the throat and which one the testicles.
From inside the welding shop, “We get our pizzas or what?”
I recognized the voice as the one on the phone.
“You get the pizzas if you get the dogs,” I responded.
“Oh, they’re alright.”
“Just the same, please get them”.
Two huge men, one in his twenties, the other his forties emerged from the shop, both covered in military style khaki, head to toe.
“Like I said, Whitey and Izan are no problem. They’re good dogs, aren’t you boys?” As he kicked hard at them and they scattered. He pointed in the direction of a beige, mostly nondescript pit-bull that was in a 4X6 welded steel cage. Not only was he caged but muzzled and chained, as well. “Now, Rudolph, she’s a different story. She’s not quite right in the head.”
I handed the older man his pizzas and got back in the truck. Feeling slightly emboldened, now that I was back in the mostly green, sans pizzas, money in hand. I was also sensing a theme with these dogs.
“What’s with the dog names? Did you say Izan?”
“Yup. Whitey is White Death.”
“And Izan is Nazi backwards,” I said
“Very good. You’re the first one to figure that out," he beamed
“And Rudolph…?”
“It ain’t what you’re probly thinkin,” he laughed. “Look at her nose.”
He pointed a military style flashlight at the caged animal that didn’t blink or move..just glared. The dog’s nose did appear to be a fairly bright shade of red.
“It aint bleedin or hurt or nothin. It’s just that way. Just like her head. She’s not quite right. Can’t have her around any other livin thing……dogs, people, livestock, plants, nothin’. Just that way”.
I looked again at the dog and she was silently stalking, glaring at me, her eyes locked on my eyes.
“We named her after the reindeer. You know Santy Claus' favorite.”
“Except she’s not a he.”
“Ah, but all Santy’s reindeer were she’s. Females are the onliest ones that have their antlers still on at Christmastime. Didn’t know that, did ya? I heard it on Paul Harvey. You know, The Rest of the Story?”
As I pulled down the pine needle path, light banks popping on in sequence, I couldn't help but sing, Rudolph the red-nosed pit bull......... I pondered their version Christmas.

SECRET SANTA

I sat in the small office waiting for the shift manager to come in and cash me out for the night. One of the other drivers, Pedro a twenty something long-hair of Puerto Rican descent, stuck his head in the door. Pedro was a guy who had serious "issues" with God. He was mad at Him for the "4 years of wasted time, playing guitar in my church worship team and trying to be a good husband and father. The whole time, my wife was screwing around on me and what do I get an S- F...ing T- D and now I find out my daughter isn't even mine. God really sucks, you know. I could have been advancing my musical career in a real rock band and getting wasted, all the time instead of wasting all my time on God. Know what I mean, Dude?" Pedro and Jack, another driver who liked to be called Mike, lived together. Mike had taken Pedro in when it all hit the fan with his wife. This night, however, Pedro seemed excited, childlike and focused on something else.
"Dude, did you get your Secret Santa name yet?"
"Sorry Pete, don't know anything about Santa," I said, "and that goes for the Easter Bunny too."
"No, Dude, come on this is cool! We each pick a name out of a hat and then we have to buy that person a present for Christmas."
"As long as it's not Buddy's hat. I won't take anything out of there", I deadpanned.
Lizzie, the 19 year old shift manager came into the office and flopped into her chair. She took my money and receipts and asked what we were talking about?
"Dude, Lizzie, we were just talking about the Secret Santa," Pedro said excitedly.
"Oh Pedro, I know what Mike is getting you," she threw in coyly.
"Wait a second, you and Mike are roommates and you're also each others Secret Santas? How did that happen," I inquired?
"We didn't cheat, Dude. Just the luck of the draw, honest. I wouldn't lie about Santa, for real. Anyway, I'll just buy Mike a big ol' bag of dope."
Lizzie threw back her head and laughed. "That's so, so funny! That's what Mike said he's getting you. A big bag of dope!" They both continued to laugh at the irony. Visions of that Christmas morning and their version of re-gifting flashed through my mind. I grabbed my tip money and left.

SHEHEREZAD WENT MISSING

As previously mentioned, there is a high turnover rate in the pizza transportation biz. No sooner do you feel like you are getting to know someone then they are gone like the winds(Buddy, the post stroke Grandpa Walton lookalike and surviving member of the Rubeonics Brothers, says our pizza gives him the winds). Such is the case with Sheherezad(sic-her mom's, not mine). She had shadowed me on Thursday(a newbie rides with an experienced driver to learn the real world ropes) and she began delivering solo on a Friday night, typically our busiest. She had a new little Asian whatyucallit "pickemup truck", as Buddy called them, equipped with a deluxe GPS. She had taken the pizza job to help pay for it.

Typically, when an order is printed out for delivery, a driver, no matter how experienced, will usually spend a moment in front of the giant wall map just to verify where he/she is going. After all, it is our gas money and on a Friday or Saturday night, if you're not careful, you could end up in a place that you just don't want to be. Buddy, has been known to plant himself, in a trance-like state, inches from the mural for 5 solid minutes at a time. This always annoyed the young drivers until I told them one time, "He's downloading". Now, they just kind of nod knowingly and work around him.

Sheherezad, like many of the technodependents, couldn't be bothered with the map. After all, she had GPS. She grabbed her first 3 delivery orders and confidently headed for the door. As far as we know, that was the last she was ever seen. There were reports from the kids taking the phone orders that she would call in periodically, in degenerating stages of hysteria. It started with, "Are there any other drivers in there that could please give me a little help?" To one and one half hours later, "I can't find any of these F....ing addresses. This isn't worth it. I have gone through a 1/2 pack of cigarettes and a half tank of gas and I STILL DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM! I F....ING QUIT! DO YOU HEAR ME? I F...ING QUIT!" No one ever did hear from her or the pizzas, for that matter, again.
The real Sheherazade went for 1000 Arabian nights. This namesake couldn't even make it for 1 in Sandia.

STIFFIE'S P.P.

Saturday night, I pulled a delivery to the eastern most edges of our store's territory. It was dusk when I turned off the main road and on to a well worn dirt road that featured some handwritten signs marking the way. STIFFIE'S P P with an arrow pointing down the driveway. I figured I was headed in the right direction because the name on the order said, "Stiffie". I pulled around a sharp turn in the driveway and I was suddenly not alone. There were ponytails, tank tops, tattoos and saggy boobs as far as the eye could see...and that was just the men. The woman too all shared a theme. They all looked like they had been rode hard and put away wet and there was not enough real teeth between them to make a respectable set of dentures.
All the party's attendees were carrying at least one can of beer and smoking a ciggie butt or a joint. I found a parking spot amongst about 100 or so Harleys scattered around the house.I got out of the Mostly Green and started walking towards what appeared to be the epicenter of Stiffieland, a pole mounted, 10 foot banner strung over a round patio type table with a red umbrella protecting it. I tried to speak to the first person to make eye contact with me.
"Stiffie," I inquired?
"Stiffie's not here, man," he responded and walked away.
Suddenly feeling as if I were in a Cheech and Chong skit, I looked for someone who both made eye contact and had a pulse.
"Excuse me," I said to a group of about 10, hoping that by the sheer size of this group, I could get a complete sentence. Does anyone know who ordered the 6 pizza's for Stiffie? There were a couple, "Stiffie's not here, dude" responses but one of them did say "go see Sheila at the table, Dude."
The lone seat at the round table was occupied by Sheila, an inflatable person dressed in a complete "Camo" outfit. Her head was covered with a floppy camo hat and her camo fatigues all the way down to her jump boots. Now, I had never actually seen a "blow up doll" before but Sheila certainly had the makin's of one. I couldn't see her privates but her mouth was a gaping maw which dominated most of her face. I refused the urge to talk to her about the pizzas but a real woman did walk out the house as I approached. She said, "those go there. Just put them by Sheila, she'll guard them." The woman paid me, then tipped nicely. As I walked to the Mostly Green, I took a look over my shoulder at Sheila. Still seated, guarding the pizzas, under the large banner that read: STIFFIE'S PAROLE PARTY. Apparently still no Stiffie, however.